


Going Home

by rocksafella



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, this is sad as f, will's dogs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 21:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10885017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocksafella/pseuds/rocksafella
Summary: On the kitchen floor, surrounded by enough blood to drown a drunk in, he dies. When Hannibal leaves him there with Abigail, when he leaves him there with Jack in the pantry, he dies.





	Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a pretty heavy fic. like. hella. theres probably PLENTY of mistakes but im not rlly looking to make it perfect haha. i just wanted to vent out some feelings and i coincidentally wound up watching mizumono at the same time so this happened. its not shippy or anything but be warned!! there's lots of sad stuff. please don't read if you're gonna get sad too.

Will dies.

 

On the kitchen floor, surrounded by enough blood to drown a drunk in, he dies. When Hannibal leaves him there with Abigail, when he leaves him there with Jack in the pantry, he dies.

 

When Will wakes up and it isn’t a dream, as his hands absently smooth over the stark white gauze on his stomach, he wishes maybe he had. Not because of any suicidal Bonnie-Clyde ideal or any desire to- it would have simply made everything less complicated. Less lonely. 

 

Will feels like a war widow. All he has to go home to are his dogs and a cold house in an ocean of field and marsh. When the bandages come off, when the FBI give the okay, when everybody stops  _ helicopter parenting  _ him, all Will has to go home to is a cold bed and a very very long time to himself that he knows he’ll fill with overthinking.

 

He does it anyway. He goes home, he sees his dogs, he doesn’t know who’s been taking care of them or who’s been keeping the house warm, for that matter, but he also finds it’s not important. Will drops his things at the door, his fresh dressings from the hospital and his clothes and other tidbits, some it from his classroom at the FBI- he leaves it all just beyond the threshold. The dogs aren’t normally allowed on the bed but when Will mutely settles himself fully clothed and bone tired under the covers, they all wait at the edge of the mattress- so he pats it gently and a few take the invitation. The ones that don’t are content to sleep around his bed and the ones that do take to sleeping near the curve his stomach and legs provide. 

 

He doesn’t leave home for a few days. Likewise, nobody calls to make him.

 

\--

 

The human hand is a marvel of evolution. Perfected carefully over thousands of years to perform amazing things or horrible ones depending on what you put your mind to. As Will sits at his piano, idly tapping keys that are horribly out of tune, he recalls Hannibal mentioning something along those lines. “Evolution gave us tools to make tools.” he’d remarked, idly observing Will as he minced Garlic and eventually diced vegetables- for a stew, Will thinks, but he can’t be sure. The comment had been almost amusing then, endearing- evolution had given humanity perfect bodies suited to survive almost anywhere on the planet, every little aspect could be marveled at.

 

In the same vein, every part of it could be mutilated. Some people gave themselves scars, others gave scars to people- cruelty was in human nature. If it wasn’t let out somehow, through something artistic or logical or violent, it built up until it was explosive. Hannibal had let it out in a way some considered  _ horrible _ , in a way some screamed were worse than what the Zodiac had done, worse than the Black Dhalia. Will disagreed, ignoring his bias. Hannibal didn’t do what he’d done, what he would continue to do simply for sport. There weren’t human arms or ribcages mounted on his walls like sport fishermen did with their catches. The things Hannibal hunted were dismembered, cleaned and consumed always in some form of culinary masterpiece. 

Will tapped the keys of his old piano in a waltzing pattern with no existing melody to follow,  _ one-two-three turn, one-two-three turn, one-two-three _ and wished he could say he’d felt some form of  _ fear _ . Some regret for his actions. He’d been playing jester for two kings at once, playing them against each other, he’d played for both sides of one game and somehow he’d been the one to lose. Some would beg to differ- he’d gotten away from the charges he probably deserved, he’d escaped death and the FBI. Some would even go so far as to insist that he’d gotten himself untangled from the web he’d been in but if Will had the energy he’d beg to differ- nothing ever got free from how tangled he’d been. He was still trapped, still the animal locked in the slaughterhouse. Only, it seemed as if he’d been cast aside. 

 

Will stopped his waltzing melody and without thinking, rested his hand across his stomach. He could still feel the blood gushing through the lines of his fingers, his fingers so evolutionarily perfected for crafting and drawing and killing. If he thought about it, if he closed his eyes and focused on the pendulum, he couldn’t put himself on the outside of what had happened. Will couldn’t remove himself from the events that had taken place that night. 

 

He could still feel Abigail’s blood drying on his hand. He could feel his own drying on his face as he watched the stag die across the floor, his own head resting on the wood to match. Evolution perfected them with the adaptational intent to further the species and yet, there they had been- determined to skew it.

 

\---

 

Will’s phone rang for the third time that morning, three times in three hours. His guess was that it was Alana, maybe Jack. He hadn’t talked to them since it had happened. He hadn’t talked to any of them, really- and he refused to say it was anything but a reluctance to see their faces.

 

It wasn’t depression. Will knew what that was. He just didn’t feel like eating much, and the only times he got up were to let the dogs out or feed them. He showered because it gave him time to stop thinking so much and it took away the headaches- being warm for forty solid minutes was also nice. The dogs seemed to rotate who slept on the bed with him now and at this point he stopped halfheartedly kicking them off. Their weight dipping the mattress was a comfort now, something new enough to be comforting but familiar enough to not be worrisome. 

 

Will snoozed, somewhere between pass-out sleep and just resting and eventually the phone rang again- time passed in jolts now. This time he made himself answer it, just letting it rest enough that he could speak and be heard and hear whoever was on the other line.

 

He didn’t offer any greeting, but it wasn’t necessary- Alana was on the other line and she knew better than to expect anything from him by now. “You need to start answering Jack.” she started. Of course, that’s what she’d start with- that was how their relationship went. She’d be firm with him like a mother only until she knew it would be no use. “Will? Are you listening?” her voice came through again and Will moved to sit up, holding the phone in his hand carefully.

 

“Yeah, Alana. I didn’t just leave you to talk to nothing.” he promised, trying for humor- it was hard to fake. He knew she wasn’t impressed.

 

“Jack is worried about you, Will. You don’t answer him, you don’t answer me and knowing you, you’re probably not taking care of yourself.” she said and oh, there it was-  _ knowing you _ . As if everything hadn’t happened. She didn’t really know him anymore, Will was sure- she wanted to believe she could though. “None of us want to drive down there and physically make you act like an adult and to be honest, neither of us can.” 

 

“I don’t need you to. It’s not as if I can afford to wallow anyway, Alana- I have the dogs. I’m taking care of myself, you don’t need to-” he had to think about it for a minute. What  _ was _ she doing? “I don’t need you to fuss.” 

 

The line was silent, and Will could hear her moving around- kitchen cupboards squeaking and gently shutting with mute thunks, Alana’s breathing getting a little harsh from all the movement. As far as he knew, from what little contact he had from anyone, she had gone through enough PT that she was able to get around on her own with some sort of aid, but he knew it must be trying- she didn’t have the same strength she’d had before and with an injury like hers, muscles had a hard time responding sometimes. He knew she had trouble, but Will also knew she most likely wasn’t doing any of it completely alone. If Jack had been forced into compassionate leave like the news and tabloids claimed and he wasn’t pestering Will or looking after Bella he was probably worrying after Alana. 

 

“Will?” Alana asked finally, the sounds of her coffee maker going, “Are you still there?” and of course- he was. He had his free hand buried in Winston’s fur, the soft bit where his shoulders opened. The dog had rarely left him alone since he’d been home. “Yeah. I’m here, Alana.”

 

But he wasn’t, really. She spent fifteen or so more minutes telling him the news she could remember, insisting he eat something tonight or at least tomorrow morning-  _ or at least make some tea or coffee, just have something _ . Will agreed, she said her goodbyes and as Will hung up he could hear something being stirred in a mug.

 

He made good on his promise to her to eat something and made toast, defrosting bread from the freezer and indulgently smothering it in jam he’d gotten from someone ages ago. Will hadn’t eaten much in a while and the jam was honestly a treat- it wasn’t the extravagant meals that had become his normal but Will supposed he had to change what normal was now. Evolution bred adaption and Will had to adapt to Hannibal’s absence and the space he had left.

 

\---

 

The jagged, ugly line across his stomach would always be there. Will knew that even with time it would not fade. No amount of  _ bio oil _ or  _ sunflower oil _ or whatever new oil fad was coming up next could take away this damage. Perfected human hands had done this but they couldn’t smooth it away again and start over. 

 

As he stood in the mirror with his shirt halfway on, Will realized all of this at a distance. On one hand, it would stand as a constant reminder of what had happened. Maybe the memory would become muddy or imperfect, details lost with age or taped over by new memories- but physical ones couldn’t be lost so easily. He fixed his shirt the rest of the way, not bothering to make sure it was even or even looked good- it was warm, it was soft, it did what clothes were supposed to. With nobody to impress or carer to but himself, Will had come to favor comfort over glamour now. 

 

Today was something new but it was something he wanted to add to his new  _ normal _ . He would walk with the dogs around the thawing marshes and stop himself from looking back at his house every fifteen milliseconds. Something easily done by other people but nowadays Will couldn’t even handle leaving his living room for more than twenty minutes. The trip he’d been forced to make to town for groceries had been the most taxing thing he’d put himself through in weeks and he’d come home on the verge of collapse. He wasn’t afraid of people seeing him or of anything, really, but he’d spent so long anchored to his home now that leaving felt like being forced into the ocean or space with no oxygen and no way to communicate. 

 

Today was a new day for normal. 

 

He took his coat and his warmest toque, the gloves he was certain Alana had given him after having to tend to the dogs while he’d been in Chilton’s criminal funhouse in the winter. She’d told him that after being unable to find a decent pair of gloves in his whole house she’d bought a pair- and now she was leaving them with him because  _ Will you can’t just rely on your pockets for warmth all the time, you work outside, you’ll get frostbitten _ \- as if he hadn’t been doing just that for most of his adult life.

  
  


The dogs were elated that he went with them into the fields. They flowed around him for a few minutes at a time before darting off into the grasses and slush, sniffing around or bothering each other before coming back to repeat the process. Buster eventually brought him a stick which he threw as far as he could just to watch the dogs go tearing after it.

 

Eventually, with enough distance and distraction Will stopped thinking about his desperate need to look back. By the time he felt the chill beginning to soak through his jacket and clothes into his skin it was almost dark. He turned around but had to stop, brain stalling at the sight of his house. He remembered comparing it to a ship in a foggy ocean, lonely lights on a calm sea. Now it was almost foreboding. As if returning to his home meant returning to the state he’d been in for nearly a month, the state he still wouldn’t call depression. 

 

Will refused to let himself be stopped by his own fears, though. He’d been in control of himself once, he wanted it back. He was tired of being tired. His skin had healed- why couldn’t his mind do the same?

 

\---

 

Maybe this had been a bad idea. Will felt like he’d eaten too many funnel cakes at the fair as a child again, his stomach was turning over and over and as he pressed a hand against his middle he could almost imagine it pressing against the zipper line of his scar. 

 

Alana was bringing her dog over. It wouldn’t be a long visit, long enough for coffee and light chatter. He could do this- he’d been walking farther and farther away from his house for weeks and the pain of leaving and returning had lessened until it was just a distant ache.

 

He thought about calling her to fake some kind of obligation and as his hand shamefully went for the phone on the wall, it was too late- his dogs went flying off the handle, jumping up to see out the windows as a familiar car pulled up. It stopped, allowing Alana (and immediately following, Applesauce) to carefully climb out. Something gripped Will behind his ribcage and he pulled on his coat, shoving his feet into his shoes- it occurred to him that Alana’s home did not have stairs. It was a nice condo and had an even nicer elevator- she most likely wouldn’t have had to go up much stairs unless she had been visiting many other people which Will doubted. The only person he considered was Jack but it was unlikely he’d have allowed her over, with Bella on her last stand.

 

He opened the door and released the dogs, immediately curbing their enthusiasm with a sharp  _ tss _ . They didn’t jump at Alana, more concerned with Applesauce anyway. He followed sharp on their heels and offered Alana a hand up the stairs, which she took. It wasn’t as if he was surprised, but he knew at some point she’d probably have gone through the process of blaming him for everything. Will wasn’t sure if she had moved past it yet.

 

He helped her into the house, however, coffee maker already going. She took a seat in the soft armchair by the window and Will, for lack of a better place, perched on the corner of his own bed. They sat quietly, the dogs barking outside. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, however- it was familiar.

 

It was normal.

 

After a minute she looked at him properly and he had trouble even raising his gaze to pretend like he was looking her in the eye. He hadn’t had proper human interaction in almost a month and a half and previously to everything, that would have been fine. Now it felt like it had been years. The last he’d seen her she’d been covered in glass, he’d laid his jacket on her both to save her from some of the rain and provide comfort- that had been nearly a month and a half ago. 

 

“You’ve been taking care of yourself.” she finally said. Will found the power to look at her properly. 

 

“You made me promise.” he replied. There was another beat of silence, and then: “Besides- I wouldn’t be punishing anybody but myself by withering away and I’m sure the dogs wouldn’t be happy about it.”

 

Her smile was one of the ones she reserved for people she actually liked and minutely Will was glad he was still on that list. He got up as the coffee maker finished and prepared the mugs, adding sugar and cream to hers and just the latter to his own.

 

When he returned she’d settled in more comfortably, in a way he was sure took some of the pressure of her own weight off her spine and hips. He handed her the mug and she held it in both hands, savoring the warmth. 

 

They watched the dogs outside and Alana talked about idle things. New news stories, how she wished she could plant something in a community garden this year. How she’d been debating getting another animal, maybe a cat, but with her back the way it was it probably wouldn’t be smart. Will jokingly offered one of his dogs, maybe even the old Collie mix who was more docile than a lamb and they both laughed. “I don’t think these dogs could be with anybody but you, Will.” Alana took a careful sip of her still warm mug and Will looked at her from the corner of his eye.

 

There was some truth to her words- his animals belonged with him. They trusted him and listened to him with minimal training. He hadn’t taught them much of it- they’d just lapsed into it as if it were normal. Evolutionarily perfected social creatures. 

 

\---

 

Will hadn’t been to visit Abigail’s grave. She’d been in his dreams only a few times since everything had happened, but he hadn’t wanted to see it. That would have made it all real. 

 

Now, however, he stood beside the little plot. She was by her mother and father’s marker, though there were no bodies for her to lay beside. Her mother had been cremated and eventually so had Garett. Will didn’t think Abigail was alone, however. Wherever people ended up when they died, she was safe. Regardless of her actions in life. 

 

He didn’t stay long, feeling as if it wouldn’t be smart to be seen there- but it was long enough to cement everything. It had been real. It had all happened. The scar across his stomach, the ache in his chest, it was all real. This wasn’t some horrible hallucination he’d come to from, it wasn’t a dream he’d forget in three days. He was living in this reality.

 

As Will returned home from the graveyard he didn’t dread the return to his empty home now. His dogs had become his normal again. He fed them, made sure they at least went outside once if not twice. He put the effort in at least once a week to take them out into the fields. 

 

Evolution had perfected humans. It made them creators, it allowed them the ability to destroy. Perhaps most importantly, all the efforts to adapt humans to be universal and determined to survive was what put Will there today- determined to survive Hannibal. Their  _ one-two-three turn _ waltz hadn’t ended, Will knew the band was only picking a new tempo. They’d find each other again.

  
Will hadn’t died on that kitchen floor with Abigail. When Hannibal had left them there, with Jack in the pantry, with Alana in the rain outside, he’d forgotten that along with their perfected hands, evolution had forced humanity to become stubborn survivors. Will had always known to never leave a fire burning unattended, not even embers and ashes- they’d reawaken at the tiniest breath of oxygen and fuel. Hannibal had left behind embers and ashes, and Will was just beginning to remember how to breathe oxygen again.

**Author's Note:**

> soooo you read this far. what a good noodle, honestly. i'm over at macheenima.tumblr! come say hi. talk hannibal to me.


End file.
